


and the Bible didn't mention us (not even once)

by pxndxmonxm



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Hogwarts, Hurt/Comfort, maybe 6th year?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29223444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pxndxmonxm/pseuds/pxndxmonxm
Summary: Magic spills out of her in rage; it would be easy, at first, to think it accidental. But after a cursory glance at the deliberate swish of her wand, the pointed edge to her incantations, he knows otherwise. This is evidence. She is proving herself.
Relationships: James Potter & Lily Evans Potter, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	and the Bible didn't mention us (not even once)

Magic spills out of her in rage; it would be easy, at first, to think it accidental. But after a cursory glance at the deliberate swish of her wand, the pointed edge to her incantations, he knows otherwise. This is evidence. She is proving herself. 

The room is cramped, an unused spare classroom piled high with extra chairs and books. Dust would be apparent on every surface if she had not set it to task swirling like a tornado overhead. Birds erupt from the tip of her wand, bright yellow and squawking for attention, but they have so much to compete with. 

Vines are growing up the walls, choking out the old paint and brick with violent green. Flowers bloom out of every corner of the room, bunches resting on the windowsill and floor and beneath several overturned chairs. They seem simple, he knows she can conjure a blossom much more intricate than these, but they are a deep purple, rimmed with white. A lesser mind might have expected those prim flowers of death, the very ones she is named for. But she is nothing if not a contradiction, and these are not lilies; they are petunias. 

It seems that the room is so choked with greenery that there would be no room for anything else. But the teacher’s desk is on fire, a self-contained wall of blue flame that refuses to spill over the edges, choosing instead to erupt and inch higher within the confines of its perfect rectangle. The books piled high on the stacks vanish and reappear with a  _ pop _ . Chairs have been transfigured left and right: a pile of encyclopedias, a telephone, a rubber duck, a tophat, a fan, a lamp, a toaster. He watches as she glares at another, which begins to shrink in upon itself in the face of her rage: legs retracting, surface turning to binding, pages growing out from between. Another book, and a decidedly unfamiliar one to him: Charles Darwin’s  _ Origin of Species _ . 

The most stunning part is the floor, whose wooden slats have become the setting for a fantastic piece of moving art, in which an enormous lion head chews through the body of a limp snake. He watches as the two-dimensional beast delivers the mortal blow, ripping off the head and tossing the writhing remains off into a corner by the door. The entire scene pulses for a moment with energy and then disappears as if wiped away. He stares at the blank floor under his feet for a moment, the gruesome image still burned there, fantastic and horrible. He thinks, not for the first time, that she is the only one in the world who can make him feel ashamed of his pride. 

A record player is spinning on an unused desk, and the sound it emits is eerie and stirs up a memory deep in the recesses of his mind. Walking with his mother, hand in hand, barely up to her waist, crunching through the snow past a church in the Muggle village right by Godric’s Hollow. They were out in the early dusk on Christmas Eve, him having accidentally set aflame the picture he had drawn his father for Christmas and sobbing in his mother’s arms before being assured they could go buy him a backup present. There were still tear tracks drying salty on his face in the bitter wind, but he was smiling at all the lights strung up around the village, pointing out every storefront reindeer and sleigh. 

As they approached the church, however, something new caught his eye. 

“Mum? Mummy? What is that, Mum? Why do they have wings?” 

A crowd of muggle children had gathered around a small wooden set consisting of a manger and several large figures made of wood. They were cooing over the wooden baby, but he was distracted by the roof of the stable, where two pristine porcelain figures hung, with circles suspended above their heads and glorious feathered wings sprouting out of their backs. 

“That’s an angel, darling. They carry messages for God.”

James had known about God. His mother herself had come from Greece and told him many stories of gods and myths, and had explained to him that some Muggles believed in God or gods, even after they’d outgrown their belief in magic. He didn’t much care for this boring messenger role, but he had never before seen such a human-like figure with the ability to fly. Wings, he thought, were almost better than broomsticks, like a built-in way to soar. And there was nothing he loved more than flying. 

“Make them come to life, Mummy! Make them fly for real!” He tugged at her hand excitedly, and she crouched down beside him. He knew his mum could animate objects with the swish of her wand and wanted nothing more than to see the look of delight upon the faces of the other children as the silly angels swooped above them. 

In the background, from inside the church, he heard a swell of young voices. At the time, he didn’t pay much attention to the lyrics, but he heard the tune, much as he heard it now. 

_ Long lay the world in sin and error pining _

_ 'Til He appears and the soul felt its worth _

_ A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices _

_ For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn _

“James,” his mother had patted his cheek, and he looked away from the scene back to her, “they don’t need to fly.” 

“But how will they believe it’s real, Mum? Muggles can’t fly, how do they know these angels can? They need proof! Why do they even have wings if they don’t use them? It’s not  _ fair _ !”

Perhaps she sensed him getting worked up again; it had, after all, been a very emotional day. She sighed and drew him closer. 

“They don’t need proof, James. They choose to believe. You and I, we can do magic, and it’s wonderful, but you don’t  _ need _ magic to be happy. They call it faith. Do you understand?”

Of course James, at the tender age of six, did not understand why anyone would choose to have wings and not fly, so he promptly burst into tears for the second time that day. 

And now, in the hallowed halls of Great Britain’s oldest magical institution, the yellow birds cease their chirping as a greater chorus fills the room. 

_ Fall on your knees; O hear the Angel voices! _

_ O night divine, O night when Christ was born _

_ O night, O Holy night, O night divine! _

The record player spins to a stop as he strides towards her. She jumps slightly as he places his hand on her shoulder, and she stares at him, still breathing heavily from the effort of exuding so much magic at once. He lays his hand atop hers on her wand and slowly brings it down. 

The fire ceases. The blossoms vanish. The chairs right themselves, a stack of books  _ pops _ back into existence, and the dust settles. 

Silence hangs heavy in the room for several moments as she looks at him. A question is on the tip of his tongue,  _ Alright, Evans? _ But he knows better than to ask the obvious. He isn’t sure what it was—the hand on her shoulder, the wand at her side, the fact that he refrained from asking such a stupid question, or perhaps that he bothered to find her in the first place—but she closes her eyes and buries her head in his chest. His arms encircle her immediately. 

She dueled three Slytherins an hour before. The evidence remains in a thin cut on her cheek, the rolled-up sleeves, the singe of her skirt, and the echo of their taunts still bitter in the air. Perhaps more, it remains in the tears he feels soaking through his shirt, even if her sobs are silent. 

He thinks of it all, the flowers, the fire, the books, the victorious lion with blood dripping from its maw. He thinks of the muggle objects that had been scattered throughout the room and the suspended porcelain angels, once so frustratingly stationary. He thinks of his mother, of finally telling her,  _ I understand _ .

He takes the wand from her grasp, lays it on the desk beside them. Puts both hands on her shoulders, causing her to stare up at him, and looks her right in the eye. 

“You have nothing to prove.”

_ I have faith in you _ .

**Author's Note:**

> Had a bit of a cry over John Hiatt's "Have A Little Faith In Me" this morning, this poured out afterward, I have no clue why. Didn't really intend for it to be religious, "O Holy Night" just transcends the mortal realm for me. Specifically, the Adolphe Adam and John Williams arrangement from Home Alone. 
> 
> Title from "Samson" by Regina Spektor.


End file.
